Let Actions Speak Louder Than Words
by Orlissa
Summary: During a sleepless night on the Bus Skye stumbles upon Grant having a nightmare, and is determined to help him. But when she first slips into his bunk, she has no idea where the night will lead (set post-The Well, smut in chapter two)
1. Part I

**A/N:** I have been struggling with this piece for nearly three weeks now – for so long that I've started to feel ashamed for my lack of activity in the fandom, and this is why I decided to break this story into two chapters, and publish the first one, although I'm still working on the second. The truth is the prompt this one is based on – one that I got from Ezriela – was a difficult one (I'll post the gif prompt with the next chapter). It was a tricky balance to make things sexy and "forbidden," but minimalize the creepy feeling that the characters are forced into doing something they don't want. Still, the second chapter of this story might contain certain sexual scenes that some readers may find uncomfortable, or even nearing the territory of dubcon, although I did everything to minimalize that. However, the first chapter is perfectly safe (I'd say that first chapter is rated K+/T, while the second is E), and although its purpose is to set the scene for the second chapter, it could stand on its own. I hope you'll like it.  
 **Disclaimer:** [Insert funny text here that tells you I don't own Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.]

* * *

 **Part I**

If it wasn't for her complete inability to fall asleep at a sensible time – due to the typical just-one-more-episode syndrome –, the whole thing wouldn't have even happened. But since she had once again gotten caught up in a binge-watching whirlwind and so two in the morning found her wide awake, stumbling from the bathroom back to her bunk, it did happen.

During the nights, almost complete silence enveloped the living quarters of the Bus – save from the soft whirring of the ever-running computers, not even the proverbial mouse was stirring. Skye had found it eerie and unnerving at first, having been used to sharing a room with half a dozen people in the orphanage and then living in her van and hearing the noises of the urban night through the thin walls of the car, but by now she had mostly gotten used to the silence. By now it was noise in the middle of the night that had become out of the norm for her.

And that night – yeah, that night was out of the norm.

At first she wasn't even sure she heard something (it was late, after all; she could have easily been imagining things). Then a second later the _noise_ – because there _was_ a noise – made her stop in her tracks, ten steps away from her bunk.

…And fifteen from Grant's, from where the noise was seemingly coming from.

Ever the curious one – and her decision-making abilities slightly impaired by the late hour –, she decided to head for the latter.

The closer she got, the surer she was it was coming from Grant's bunk, and the clearer the noise got – groans and moans (not the fun kind), rustling of sheets, and something like mumbled words, all muffled by the walls of the plane, seemed to come from inside, the more definite the harder she listened.

It put her on edge, made her heart clench painfully, because she was all too familiar with this kind of noise. She had heard it enough and experienced it enough.

With determined, but slightly trembling hands, she slid his door open (she barely spared a thought to how he would react to her violation of his personal space), stepped into his bunk, closed the door, and, barely thinking, knelt down beside his bed.

He was in obvious anguish – the tangled sheets pushed down to his waist, his hands fisted in the material, the muscles on his neck strained, his brows pulled together, jaw clenched, a fine sheet of sweat covering his skin as he trashed in the bed. And he was mumbling in his sleep, too, a sad, pitiful sound that made her heart clench.

He was having a nightmare – which, in itself, wasn't unexpected at all. Skye herself had been having problems sleeping recently, and she hadn't even held the Berserker Staff and felt the rage from the ancient weapon fill her veins, pulling her worst memories to the surface.

No, that was all Grant.

The nurturer in her – the need to help – awakening (she couldn't let him suffer like that), she gently placed her hand on his bare shoulder, and, biting into her lip, she carefully shook him, trying to wake him.

"Ward…" she said softly, leaning closer, her face inches away from his. "Grant, wake up," she tried, but he remained imprisoned in his nightmare, eyes clenched shut, so she gripped his arm tighter, and tried louder. "Grant!"

This time he woke – his eyes flying open he suddenly sat up, panting heavily and clearly disoriented. Not having a grasp on reality yet, only registering a potential foe, he flung out his arm instinctively and pushed her away with such a force that her back hit the wall of the cabin.

"It's okay! it's just me!" she said quickly, not registering the pain or losing her composure, raising a hand in a calming gesture, focusing solely on him. "It's okay!"

He stilled, chest heaving, gaze still unfocused – a part of him still trapped in his nightmare, without doubt –, a hand extended halfway towards the bedside table, where, she was sure, he kept a spare gun. For a moment neither of them spoke.

"Skye?" he said at last, his eyes finally founding focus, but his voice still breathless. Then, only then, did he flick on the lamp and took a closer look at her, his gaze instantly softening, concern appearing in his orbs. "Are you okay?" was his first question, suddenly more worried about her than himself, even though he still looked completely terrified.

"Yeah, it's me," she repeated somewhat inanely with a slightly pained grunt as she tried to push herself to her knees again, blinking in the sudden light. He moved right away to help her, grabbing her arms and gently pulling her forward, until she was kneeling again, sitting face to face (or more like face to chest) with him, her hands resting on the mattress only inches away from his thighs. "I'm okay, really."

He appeared to be slightly unconvinced for a moment, then asked, "What are you doing here?" There was only genuine interest and surprise, maybe mixed with a drop of shame, in his voice now; no anger or rage or resentment for invading his bunk uninvited. And his eyes… He was looking at her like he could scarcely believe she was there.

"I was passing through the lounge and I heard you moaning." He winced; he clearly didn't like the idea of her knowing about his nightmare. As a placating gesture, she placed her hand on top of his over the duvet; his hand twitched, but he didn't pull it away. "But the important question is: are _you_ okay?" she asked, looking into his eyes. His pupils were still a little dilated, his breathing still s little heavy; whatever he had dreamed about – and she had a good idea what it was –, it had really shaken him up.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," he said, almost off-handedly, almost as if he wanted to downplay the incident, but she still could feel his pulse hammering under her fingertips. "It was nothing, really." He rubbed his face with his free hand (his other still unmoving under her smaller one), then, not meeting her eyes, he continued, "Thanks for looking out for me, but you can go now."

She knew all too well what he was doing – hating to be seen anything but the invincible specialist, loathing to show weakness, he was trying to get rid of her in the moment when he needed someone to look after him the most – even though she could see he wanted her there, that he needed the comfort she could give him. So yeah, well, she was having none of his bullshit.

Acting maybe a little bold, she sat up on the mattress next to him and cradled his hand in hers, her thumb resting against his palm; this time he tried to pull it away at first, but then gave up when she started rubbing circles into his skin and spoke again.

"Was it about your brother?" she probed.

"Skye…"

"It was."

She could see him swallow, and then he cast his eyes down.

"It doesn't matter." He pulled his hand away at last, practically tearing it from her grasp. "It wasn't the first time, nor the last. I can deal with it. Thanks. Good night."

It was obvious that he considered the topic closed and her "visit" concluded. But she was made of at least as stubborn material as he was, and she didn't share this sentiment.

Scooting even closer to him, all but _forcing_ him to look at her, she said, "Yeah, I know you can deal with it, but you don't have to. And it must be worse now, after dealing with the Berserker Staff." When he didn't reply, she cupped his face in her hand, and looked deep into his eyes. She could see the conflict in his gaze – the want to let her in and confide in her and let her help, fighting with some stupid idea instilled in him that told him to shut her out. "Let me help," she said softly.

He let out a humorless chuckle and tore his gaze away.

"Like you could."

It hurt her how lost, how vulnerable he looked now – eyes cast down, shoulder slumped forward, fingers limp, wanting to be held –, like a little boy, with his misleading armor, the one that made people believe that he was cold, distant, cast aside in her presence. Because it was down, painfully down – she noticed it before, how he seemed to place his trust in her, how willing he seemed sometimes, when they were alone, to let her in. He didn't do that with anybody else, at least not that she knew of, and it just made her want to help more. It made her want to show him that she was there for him, that he could count on her.

That he didn't need to be alone.

"Hey," she said, her voice barely above whisper, "Just let me try, okay?" _And stop thinking no-one can help you, or will help you, or that you don't deserve the help,_ she added mentally. Then, urged by a sudden thought, she added, "And now, scoot over."

"What?"

"Scoot over!" she repeated, but then didn't even wait for him to move, only climbed over his legs and wedged herself between his body and the wall.

He looked at her, clearly torn between being amused, wanting to throw her out of the bunk and list a number of reasons why what she was doing was inappropriate (frankly, she didn't care about that).

"What are you doing?" he asked at last.

"Something the nuns used to do for us when we had nightmares," she replied, sweeping her hair to one side to free her shoulder closer to him as she settled back against his pillow, half-sitting. "Now just lean back," she instructed, then when he was still looking at her skeptically, she added, "Grant, please."

Using his given name must have been the trick – or it was a pleading tone of her voice –, but he finally gave in, and, although still looking a bit unconvinced, leaned back half-against her, so his head was cradled by her arm. Her elbow behind his neck, she bent her wrist and slid her fingers into his hair, just above the hairline, and started gently caressing his scalp, playing with his short hair.

"I have to give it to them – the nuns did everything they could for us," she said softly. "Sure, they were strict and all, but… they cared," she went on. They were so close, she could feel every little twitch and tell of his body – she could feel that he was slowly starting to relax as well, his tense muscles loosening up, thanks to her closeness, her words, or her soft touch. Whether it was, she was just glad that it was working. "And when we had nightmares, they would sit by us, caressing our hair, until we fell back asleep – and not only when we were little." She paused, took a deep breath, and let her eyelids drop for a moment. "It was nice. Almost like having a mom, I guess."

She had half-expected him to have had fallen asleep already, but then he spoke, with his eyes closed.

"My mother never did anything like that. And she would have only been mad if we asked."

She couldn't help but snort at this.

"Yeah, well, you're lucky you have me now," she said, then, quite impulsively, leaned in and pressed a kiss against the top of his head, while flicked the lamp off with her free hand. "Hush now and try to relax. I'll stay with you until you fall asleep."

She really meant that, she really did. At that moment. Only that it was so comfy lying next him, his body was so pleasurably warm, and it was just so nice, so calming to know that he was safe and at peace and in good, caring hands, that not long after he had finally fallen back asleep – his body lax, his breathing even, no nightmares in sight –, she gave in to the temptation and let her eyelids close, following him to the land of dreams.


	2. Part II

**A/N:** After two more weeks of working on it, the second chapter is finally done - and it's lot longer than I intended it to be! Anyway, as promised, some explanation/warning: due to the nature of the prompt – a given situation, and the request it to be their first sexual encounter – there is a scene in this story which might feel a bit dub-con. I did my best the lessen this feeling as much as I can, and I can assure you that by the end, you get two very enthusiastic participants, but I think it's only fair to put a warning out. Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy this installment :) (especially considering how much a struggled with it! :D)

* * *

 **Part II**

She woke up for what felt like five minutes later – dawn was just starting to break outside, filling the cabin with soft, ambient light –, and for a moment she was completely confused. On one hand, she was in a rather awkward and uncomfortable position, one arm pressed against the wall of the Bus, legs cramped, and something warm and heavy on her shoulder; on the other hand, she had this strange feeling of contentment and peace that kept her from moving. Also, she had no idea of what had awoken her.

And then she heard it (strange noises seemed to be theme of her night).

" _Skye…_ " came the low, throaty, barely audible whisper from her left.

That was also the moment when memories flooded her mind and she became aware of the situation she was in.

Wandering in the Bus during the night.

Grant moaning, having a nightmare.

Her waking him up, trying to comfort him.

Lying down next to him to soothe him back into sleep.

Falling asleep next to him.

And now waking up, their bodies crammed together on the twin bed, and him calling out for her in his sleep.

At first she thought he was having another nightmare – it wasn't an unlikely scenario, not with what he had been through lately –, only this time it was featuring her (it made her stop and think for a moment – could she be so important to him that the thought of something happening to her caused him enough dread that it haunted his dreams? _No_ , she reasoned with herself. _To think that would be a delusion. Or wishful thinking_ ). She was alert in a blink of an eye, sleep banished from her mind, ready to wake him up once again.

Only the next moment he called out her name once again, accompanied by a moan that didn't feel like a nightmare-sound at all.

…Actually, it sounded much like a _fun_ kind of moan.

She blinked, puzzled for a moment, then let her gaze move over him, from his face, down his chest, to his… _oh_.

Suddenly everything became crystal clear.

He slept shirtless, wearing only a pair of boxer briefs – a fact that had not been lost on her when she had first came into his bunk that night, but thankfully she had been too preoccupied by his distress to ogle him (even though there was much to ogle) –, and as they slept, the blanket had somehow slipped down to his thighs, revealing, well… everything. Most precisely the clear outline of his swollen, hard member, pressed down by his underwear.

So he was most definitely not having a nightmare; no, it was a freaking wet dream, featuring, based on his mumblings, her.

(Another strange, but absurdly arousing idea to process.)

She sneaked a glance at his face – he was still very much asleep, lips slightly parted, eyes squeezed shut –, then, biting her lip, she turned her gaze at his crotch.

He seemed massive – not that it was that much of a surprise –, his length and girth teasingly hidden by the black material, but visible enough that she found herself having to squeeze her thighs together. She would be lying if she said she hadn't imagined… the two of them, together, in a very much biblical sense. To be completely honest, that was a fantasy that got her through a number of lonely nights in the last couple of months – him, holding her securely, confidently, pushing into her willing body, looking deep into her eyes as he pumped in and out of her…

But she hadn't really thought that he had similar fantasies. Sure, she was aware that they had a _connection_ – a level of attraction, a longing, _chemistry_ , if you will –, but even when it felt like they were having a moment, like in that bar in Dublin, when he was the most open, the most approachable, he seemed too guarded, too self-disciplined to give into these possible desires. Meaning that even if he did desire her, she had reasoned with herself, he would never let himself act on these feeling – being a specialist, keeping things compartmentalized, playing by the book, and all. So Skye had simply given up expecting to put her fantasies into practice.

But now she had a feeling that he wasn't that good at self-discipline, after all.

He moaned once again and bucked his hips, making his erection strain ever harder against the material, its contour even more defined.

Skye bit back a moan.

She had an, well, let's call it idea. An inkling. A desire. And it was… wrong, on _oh so many_ levels, but damn – she had never been good at impulse control (act first, think later usually worked well for her – or not, at least on the long run). So, yeah, she might have known it wasn't really the best idea ever, but… But she really needed, _needed_ to do it.

(At least she kept telling herself that.)

So she did it. She slowly, carefully – so not to wake him – extracted herself from her position half-under Grant, then, pushing herself into a more-or-less sitting position, she extended her right hand towards… _him_.

It wasn't like she wanted to give him a handjob – finish what his dream had started –, or exploit his body for her selfish needs ( _gah_ , that was the furthest thing for her mind) – no, she just wanted to… feel him. She was just curious. Like a blushing Victorian bride on her wedding night, marveling at the male anatomy – yeah, that was her at that moment.

She carefully lowered her hand to his cloth-hidden erection, her fingertips hovering over him for a moment or two before she finally made up her mind, and… made contact.

It was just the tip of her index finger first, experimentally brushed along his length, barely touching him. He was… warm, inviting, exciting. The whole mess was grotesquely exciting, making her heart hammer in her chest (it was so much more exhilarating and dangerous than fooling around with a fellow orphan in the storage closet behind the nuns' backs).

She stole a glance at his face – his eyes were still closed, lips slightly open, breathing just a little bit erratic, his expression speaking of just the amount of dream-induced pleasure she had seen minutes before. He was still fast asleep.

Emboldened by this, she let her fingers lie against his length – not really curling around it, but exploring, still a bit uncertainly.

He felt… nice. Hot and hard and heavy and exciting and dangerous and forbidden and strangely familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. Like something she wanted to have _more_ of. Like something she wanted to have inside of her.

She closed her eyes at the thought of that – at the thought of what the two of them could do together –, not that it helped a bit; her breathing was already erratic and her core achingly wet. Even if she stopped now, a little, nagging voice in the back of her head informed her gloatingly, she could barely get out of this situation in any dignified way. Even if he didn't wake, she sure as hell wouldn't be able to go back to sleep now, not without taking care of her increasingly more urgent problem first, which she couldn't do lying right next to him. She could have sneaked out of his bunk and back to hers, but risk him thinking that she had abandoned him when he had seemed so vulnerable before? No, she couldn't do that. And anyway, she would just most likely wake him if she tried to get out of the bed – and that would mean that he would wake to her escaping and him having a raging hard-on.

Not that would be awkward _at all_.

(Either way, she was slowly starting to realize that she was screwed, but just couldn't find herself to care.)

But even as she was contemplating the possible outcomes, she never stopped touching him, barely aware of what she was doing, just being fascinated by his every little twitch and sigh and tremor (he said her name again), slowly growing bolder and bolder – her fingers now gripping him lightly, playing him as if he was an instrument, marveling at him as if he was a masterpiece.

Of course, in hindsight, it was bound to end in a disaster.

(Although what might be considered a disaster is up to debate.)

She noticed his breathing change a moment too late; too deep in thought the register sounds, she only realized what was happening when his body suddenly went rigid. Then, only then did she look up, and – met his gaze.

He was looking at her, his lids half-lowered, his eyes halfway between being sleep-ridden and hyperaware, his face completely unreadable.

 _Panic._

That was her first reaction – pure panic and an irresistible urge to flight, without much rational thought. Her own body freezing for a moment – much like a doe in headlights, she reckoned – she stared at him, then, as if a switch was overthrown in her mind, her muscles awakened again, and she was ready to flee, jump out of the bed and rush out of the bunk, maybe even leave the Bus and never look back, because – how do you go on with at least a shred of dignity after something like this?

But before she could have bolted he grabbed her wrist, holding it secure and keeping her from escaping.

His grip on her was strong, but not painful – and somehow it didn't make her feel as if he was mad –, and the way he held her made her look up and meet his eyes.

She was expecting him to be angry; to chew her out – he would have had every right to do so –, to maybe even shout and tell her how wrong it was what she was doing and then kick her out (out of his bunk, out of the plane, out of the team…), but… he didn't. A silent moment, then two, then three passed, and he was just looking at her with something akin to wonder in his eyes, his breathing hard, his lips slightly parted, pupils blown, his body slowly rising and nearing hers.

"Grant, I'm–"

And then he was kissing her. He let go of her wrist and cradled her face in his palms – all done in a blink of an eye –, and then his lips were on hers, rough and demanding and desperate, his fingers slipping into her hair and his tongue begging for entrance. He was kissing her as if he was a drowning man and she was his oxygen – as if he was on the brink of death, and she was the only one capable of saving him.

She froze for a moment, then returned the kiss – placed her own hands on his neck, pulling him closer, while opening her mouth, letting him in, welcoming him; she welcomed the bruising force of his lips, his gentle nips and his caressing fingers, the way his stubble was tickling her skin, the way his scent seemed to envelop her, and the way the boundaries between them seemed to dissolve. When he gently tugged at her, calling her forward, she obeyed and went – crawling above him, until she was straddling his hips, her body turned completely towards his.

A small, rationalist part of her tried to remind her that they were supposed to _talk_. That they were supposed to have a discussion over what had just happened between them – what had she just done to him –, but this voice was weak and powerless, and Skye found it easy to tune it out.

And anyways, didn't people always say that actions speak louder than words? Maybe they didn't needed words at all – maybe everything they had to know was there in that kiss. Words would have been useless, anyway – words would have just complicated things. Because what can you say when you wake for a hot dream and find the star of your dream touching you? Words, in that situation, would birth only awkwardness and shame and guilt and resentment. Averted eyes and forced politeness. Keeping the other at arm's length. But forgoing the words in favor of a kiss, letting the other know that _all was well_?

She really preferred kisses over words.

He kept kissing her until he ran out of air; then he rested his forehead against hers, his breathing heavy, his eyes half-closed, his face so close to hers that she could feel his lashes on her skin. He was still and silent for a moment, trying to regain his composure, and she waited – waited for him, waited for what was to come. The only thing she did was placing her hand atop of his still cradling her face. When she did that, she seemed to break a spell – his eyes opened and he looked into her eyes for an infinite moment. Then when it was over, he started peppering her face with kisses – her cheeks, her brow, her nose, her chin, hurried, chaste kisses; his lips moved frantically over her face, as if he didn't know where to kiss next, as if he couldn't get enough of her.

"Please, stay," he murmured between kisses, his voice low and hoarse. "Please…"

"Yes," she breathed in reply, seeking out his lips, desperate to return his kisses. "Yes…"

And then they were kissing again, breaths mingling, mouth on mouth, nipping and licking and sighing. This time it was her cradling his face while his hands wandered to her shoulder blades, pulling her close, but holding her delicately, as if he was afraid to break her, or worse – as if he was afraid she was just an illusion, one that was to crumble into dust to moment he touched her too rough.

This time when they came up for air, he hesitated for a moment, his face hovering millimeters from hers; she held her breath, waiting, once again, for what was going to happen next. Then he moved his hand from her shoulder and gently brushed his fingers along the column of her neck.

"Is it okay?" he asked.

She almost snorted; minutes ago she was boldly palming his hardened member, and now he was asking permission to touch her neck. It was absurd, in a way.

"Yes," was all she managed to say. The next moment his lips were on her neck, first caressing the soft skin experimentally, then nipping and sucking, making her whole body tremble and her eyelids flutter closed.

When he ran his tongue along the side of her neck, from the base of her ear down to her collarbone, she sighed, then curled her fingers around his wrist – his hand was still resting on her shoulder, almost chastely –, and slowly, gently drew his hand down, to between her legs. She had gone to bed in an oversized T-shirt over her panties (her stupid, cartoon-printed panties), and now she placed his hand right over her cotton-clad mound.

"Touch me," she said, looking deep into his eyes, her voice barely above whisper. "It's yours."

She could feel him tense for a moment, then his fingertips pressed forward, into the damp material – she was so wet, she had been ever since her wakening – covering her, caressing her carefully; testing the waters.

When her eyes fluttered closed at the sensation, he took it as an encouraging sign – good call –, and pressed harder, finding and teasing her clit in slow, circular motion through her panties, making her moan softly and clutching at his arms to keep herself steady. He continued doing this for a couple of seconds, making her sigh in pleasure and dig her fingers into his biceps. And although her eyes were closed, she could tell he was watching her face, aware of every little twitch, cataloguing them. Whatever he was seeing, it made him more confident – before long he was pushing her panties aside and gain access to her bare flesh.

She moaned once again – this time louder, forcing him to seal her lips with his own – as he slipped a finger inside of her, and curled it, feeling the texture of her walls. When he pulled his mouth down, returning to her neck, she bit into her lower lip to stay quiet as she rocked her hips instinctively, riding his finger.

She really wanted him to add another, to go harder, to fill her and stretch her to her limits – and it was already _so good_ , it was making her mind hazy and her senses overloaded (had it been this good for him when she was touching him?), and if he was going to keep it up, then she was going to…

The next moment his hand was gone, and she could feel gentle tugging at the hem of her T-shirt.

"Take it off, please, take it off," he whispered against her neck, a hand, the hand that had been teasing her only seconds ago, sneaking under her top, lifting the material slightly, and caressing the soft skin underneath along the waistline of her panties. " _Please._ "

It would have been unfair to deny him that – and anyway, she wanted him to see her, bare and naked. She wanted to give it to him. So she grabbed the hem of her shirt, pulled it over her head and then let it fall to the ground in one fluid motion.

She wore nothing under it, of course, and she could see his eyes focus on her breasts right away. Her nipples stood erect, pebble-like in her aroused state; he ever so slowly lowered his head to her left breast and took the nipple between his lips, his teeth carefully grazing the sensitive skin, before he let go of it again. She arched her back in pleasure.

Then, just before he could he continued with his ministrations, she put her hands on his shoulders and pushed herself away, rising from his lap. He looked at her, confused, _hurt_ , but then saw what she was doing – untangled from him, she stood next to the bed, pushed down her panties and stepped out of them, until she was standing completely naked in front of him.

There was a moment when he stilled, when things clicked for him, then he blinked and reached for his own underwear in a hurried fashion, trying to get it off as quickly as he could without getting up from the bed. It wasn't the most graceful thing she'd ever seen, and it might even made her giggle a little, but it got the job done – soon, with a little help from her, his underwear was tossed to the corner of the bunk, and she was crawling back on top of him.

"You're adorable like this," she whispered, elbows resting on either side of his face, smiling lips brushing against his.

"I'm not," he answered softly in an indignant, almost-hurt tone, eyes half-closed, mouth chasing hers. "I'm not…"

"It's not a bad thing…" she answered, sliding down a little on his body. "Now less talking and more– Ah!" She gasped and then keened as he gently bit into the sensitive flesh where her neck met her shoulder, then, reaching up, took one of her breasts into his hand. " _Hm…_ "

 _Two can play this game…_ She thought as she slid even lower, until she could grind against his groin, feeling his hard member slide between her legs.

She gasped again and moaned deeply when his erection first slipped between her folds, his hard length brushing against her clit.

She had imagined that he would feel good – she had had many a night for that; she had thought that he would be great –, she had felt him and glimpsed him, saw his proud length, standing eager to attention. But to feel him so close to where she wanted him the most? This was beyond everything her imagination could have come up with.

Still, it was not enough.

"I want you," she whispered against his lips. "I want you inside of me…"

She could feel a momentary tensing of his body, the way his breath hitched, then he was sliding his hands into her hair, his fingers getting tangled in her locks, and he was pulling her head down, until their mouths met in another frantic kiss.

"Yes," he breathed when he pulled away from her for a moment, sliding a hand gently down her face, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger for a moment, looking into her eyes. "I…" he started but then trailed off, as if he had too much to say to put it into words. So, instead of speaking he kissed her again with a bruising force, letting his actions speak for his feelings.

Then, before long – before she could have started complaining – he let go of her head with one hand, reached down between them – caressing her breasts and abdomen on his way down –, slipped his fingers between her folds, teased her clit for a moment, then took his member into his hand, steadying it, and positioned his head at her entrance. She took the hint and raised herself a bit, granting him access and a better angle, supporting herself with her hands splayed on his chest.

She then slowly lowered herself, taking him in; he entered her gently, not urging or forcing her, keeping his hips steady, sliding into her inch after glorious inch. He was big, thick and long, and he was stretching her to her limit, but she was wet and ready and more aroused that she thought she had ever been, so he slipped into her with relative ease, filling her like nobody had ever before.

Truly, her fantasies had nothing on him.

Once fully sheathed in her, her eyes fluttering closed, she let her head fall back, while her nails dug into his chest, leaving white crescent moons in the soft skin.

It might be stupid, and cheesy, and brought up solely by the pleasure coursing through her veins and the intimacy of the moment, but she felt… complete with him inside of her. Made. At home. Like pieces of a puzzle clicked together, completing a picture.

He allowed her a moment to adjust, then gave her a gentle nudge with his hips, thrusting carefully forward, just to test the waters. She moaned at the thrust – he hit some sweet spot inside of her –, then let her head slowly fall forward, while she opened her eyes and looked into his.

His gaze was gleaming and deep and piercing and full of emotion in the dim light of the bunk, and spoke of way more than what words could express.

So she didn't even try talking.

She just stared back into his wide, brown orbs – golden flecks dancing around his dilated pupils, calling to her –, and, never breaking eye contact, she lifted herself then fell back down, letting him slip almost completely out of her before taking all of him in once again.

She moved in a slow rhythm, and he followed her lead, matching thrust for thrust, letting her set the pace. His gaze never leaving hers, he kept his hands on her hips, fingertips sliding over to the curve of her ass, helping her move, rise up and slide down, slowly and deliberately. It was slow, it was sensual; it was almost disturbingly intimate – there was passion and need and lust, sure, but what she felt, what _he must felt_ , went deeper.

She gradually increased her pace, urged by the way he was filling her up and hitting her in all the right places – his hard member sliding in and out of her with ease, coated in her juices –, while his hands slowly inched upwards, his thumbs caressing the inward curve of her waist. Overwhelmed by pleasure, she could see that he could barely keep his eyes open anymore (her own lids were fluttering closed in ecstasy, too).

So she took his wrist and lifted his hand to her breast – if he couldn't see her, he deserved to feel her at least.

He took the hint, palming her breast, fondling the soft mound, playing with her pebble-like nipple, rolling it between his fingertips, making her sigh and moan and keen, and pick up the pace, slamming her hips against his.

She was getting close, dangerously close – just a little nudge, and she was going to fall over the edge. And what a fall it was going to be! She could already feel it, the way her spine tingled, and how she was aware of every single cell of her body and how her walls tensed and clenched around him… And yet, she still needed that nudge.

Then again, as if he was reading her thoughts, he let go of her breast – she let out a soft whimper, but never slowed down – and slipped his hand between their bodies, where they were so intimately connected, and sought out her clit, pressing the pads of his middle and index fingers against the sensitive, hardened nub, drawing frantic circles on it.

And that was it.

It was sudden and powerful; it felt as if she was torn out of her own skin – as if she was suddenly freed from her chains and let to fly, a phoenix spreading her wings. Pleasure coursing through her veins, her back arched and her toes curled and her walls fluttered and her mouth opened, letting out an ecstatic cry, and she didn't even care if others heard it. Her orgasm must have triggered his, because amidst the waves of overwhelming pleasure she could feel his body going rigid at first, then his last, punctuated thrusts, before he erupted inside of her, filling her up in hot spurts.

Afterwards she collapsed on top of him – sweaty, dazed, panting, her limbs too heavy to move. Her senses were slow to come back, but when they gradually did, she struggled to feel and commit to memory every single detail.

How soft the skin of his chest was under her cheek.

How wildly his heart beat against her ear.

How his hot breath tickled the top of her head.

How his hand felt on the small of her back.

How he slipped out of her gently, leaving their mixed juices behind.

How it was the perfect moment of peace.

Because she knew that as soon as he came down from his high, the other shoe was going to drop.

She was well too acquainted with deeds one indulged in gladly, only to regret it later, and she was completely sure that their… incident fell into this category, at least in Grant's book. She was sure that any moment now he was going to blink and shake his head and realize what had just happened, and then push her off of him and dress quickly. Say that it was a mistake, a huge one, something that should have never happened, without meeting her eyes. Or even worse, he was going to shout at her – and it would be rightful of him to do so –, and throw her out, out of his bunk, out of the Bus, out of…

And the worst? He would be absolutely right (even if he was just as enthusiastic as she was).

Only… this moment wasn't coming.

His breathing slowly calmed, and his heartbeat slowed down, and yet he hadn't said a word, only held her close, moving a fingertip idly up and down along her spine, barely brushing against her skin, almost lulling her to sleep.

But just almost – she couldn't… she couldn't drift off without knowing…

So she slowly raised her head from his chest to look at him – his face was calm, relaxed, his eyes closed –, and she was just about to speak, to ask – knowing well she might just as well ruin everything –, but before she could have said a word, his eyes fluttered open and he looked at her with an almost pleading look in his eyes.

"Don't go, please. Stay," he said softly, echoing his earlier words, his voice barely above whisper. Then he pressed a kiss against the top of her head and tightened his arms around her, pulling her close. "Please."

So she stayed; she lay her head back down on his chest and brought one hand up to his collarbone, drawing soothing, nonsensical patterns onto the soft skin.

"Alright. I'll stay," she mumbled against him.

"Thank you," he whispered, his hand ghosting along her back. And then – and then she laughed. Because he was thanking her, and she wasn't even sure exactly what he was thanking, and anyway, who said _thank you_ for sex? And this whole situation was just so messed up, so absurd, and her mind still wasn't working the right way, so she did the only thing that felt appropriate at the moment – she laughed.

"What?" he asked a bit sharply – almost scared –, rising up, but with a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Nothing," she promised, soft laughter still bubbling from her lips as she sought out his mouth. "Nothing… nothing at all…" she said, then kissed him, with teasing, nipping kisses, what he was all too eager to return.

She was no fool – she knew the moment, the morning had to end some point; she knew that this bubble of ridiculous happiness was destined to burst. She knew that at one point they'll have to emerge from his bunk, and that there was no way of doing it without their teammates noticing it and adding two and two together and asking questions, but… She couldn't care less right now.

She had much more important things to do.


End file.
